Theater of War: Act Two, Scene One
by TOW
Summary: ACT TWO – “The Play’s the Thing” W. Shakespeare : January 1945 finds the Heroes in deadly peril from a hitherto underestimated foe — Hochstetter. Even if they survive, they may have to abandon Stalag 13.
1. Chapter 1

Act Two

Scene One

– One –

January 1945 — three years of war for the Americans, over five years for beleaguered Europe. And the end was still nowhere in sight. In the Pacific, the U.S. Eighth Army had begun a hard, bitter campaign in the Philippines. In Europe, a long, drawn-out battle, the Battle of the Bulge, was still being fought. There were already thousands of casualties, American, British, German. Yet the battle and the lines seesawed back and forth, and the victor was still to be determined.

For the Allies, there were more signs that the once unbeatable German armies were cracking. Fuel shortages were beginning to cripple the mighty Panzer divisions. The Luftwaffe had in the beginning of the year undertaken what would prove to be its last major operation, sending hundreds of planes against France and the Low Countries. But it had been a costly, disastrous operation for the once invincible Luftwaffe. The Allies continually proved their supremacy in the air, sending thousands of bombers against German and Axis cities. And on the Eastern Front, the Russians had launched their greatest offensive, sending hundreds of thousands of soldiers against a much smaller German army.

Those were the grand battles of the war, the ones the historians write about. But there were smaller battles as well, battles involving no divisions, no armies, battles fought by a myriad of resistance groups in France, Germany and the other war-torn countries, battles that are only now coming to light. They were battles involving a few courageous men and women who defied the odds in the unlikeliest of places, places like a prisoner of war camp near the town of Hammelburg not far from the city of Dusseldorf in northwestern Germany. There, under the command of American Colonel Robert Hogan, the senior POW officer in Stalag Luft 13, a small group of men, with the benign cooperation of the rest of the camp and help from resistance members in Hammelburg, ran an effective rescue and sabotage operation under the noses of their German guards.

But at the moment, it was quiet in Hammelburg and the camp, and Robert Hogan could just sit and enjoy a cup of coffee. For a change, he wasn't planning his next operation. That in itself was unusual. In the three years he'd been at Stalag 13, peace and quiet were far from the norm for Hogan. From his first moment in the camp, his thoughts and energies were directed toward fighting the Nazis and toward getting the camp and the surrounding community involved. Starting the tunnels that crisscrossed the ground underneath the camp kept the men busy and occupied. That was good for morale and kept order. The hard part had been convincing them to agree to his rescue and sabotage operation. But he had done it. And done it right under the noses of not only the Luftwaffe personnel who ran the camp, but also the SS and Gestapo.

The people of Hammelburg also cooperated in their operation. Before the war, before Hitler, Hammelburg had been a small centuries-old town, quiet and sedate. Since the war, it had become important. During the years Hogan had been at the camp, the town had had a variety of war industries, from cannon factories to ball bearing plants to fuel depots. But thanks to Hogan's activities, those industries had all but disappeared as had most of the local upper crust. And now that the Allies weren't that far away, no new industries had started up. As for the camp's primary mission, helping escaped prisoners from other camps, even that activity had died down. The general feeling among the Allied prisoners was that there were only a few months to go in the war. There seemed to be little point in escaping from a fairly safe POW camp to a less than safe countryside where German soldiers and Allied bombs were an equal risk. They still had a few men coming through, but they were primarily downed bomber crews who were still evading capture.

But there were less pleasant changes in the camp as well. Since the Allied invasion at Normandy, more and more prisoners were coming into the camp. The current population was about eighteen hundred men, far more than the camp had been built to house. The new prisoners were a rougher, more confident breed than the men who'd been here for some time; that made it a bit harder for Hogan to keep them in line, but he was managing.

Well, Hogan was glad for the rest right now. It had been an eventful past few weeks for him. It had begun unexpectedly in November when he learned of the death of Colonel Wilhelm Klink's five-year-old nephew. That tragedy and Klink's evident grief had caused Hogan to reexamine his relationship with the camp kommandant. And it was a reexamination he didn't welcome.

The first violent death in the camp's history shortly thereafter had led to an even greater crisis for Hogan and the camp. An American sergeant named Martinelli, who had escaped from other camps and had been sent to Stalag 13 as a last resort, had taken Klink prisoner and actually beaten him in an effort to escape from the camp. That incident ended when the SS killed Martinelli. The death of the American had shocked the camp, especially Hogan. Unwilling to face his feelings toward Klink, Hogan had lashed out at the Kommandant, lashed out to the extent that he had wished Klink dead in front of the camp and then betrayed him to the Gestapo as a traitor. It was a betrayal that Klink had not expected, and one he could not forgive. Relations between Hogan and Klink deteriorated into the worst they'd ever been, and the tension in the camp increased even more. For Hogan, it resulted in nightmares centered around Klink, nightmares where the horror of what had happened and what could have happened were intertwined.

It had all come to a head when Hogan and Klink found themselves trapped by a cave-in in an old mine. A cave-in where Hogan was finally forced to acknowledge how badly he had treated Klink in the past. And forced to acknowledge how he really felt about the German Kommandant. He made Klink a promise in that cave, a promise that they would face whatever happened in the camp together. And it was a promise that Hogan intended to keep.

The newly acknowledged bond between Klink and Hogan had a welcome side effect. It enabled them to work together for the good of the camp. The increasing number of prisoners came at a time of extreme hardships for Germany. Reduced rations, cut budgets, inexperienced guards, all contributed to the problems of the overcrowded camp. But Hogan and Klink's new relationship helped everyone cope with the problems. Now they cooperated with each other to solve the camp's problems instead of competing for control as they had done before.

Hogan's relaxed reverie was broken by a knock on his door.

"Colonel?" It was Hammond, one of the men in the barracks. "The staff car's back."

"Klink and Gruber?"

"I'm not sure, sir," Hammond admitted. "I saw Gruber get out, but I didn't hang around."

"Okay, thanks."

Hogan got up and pulled on his jacket and cap. He left his room and the barracks, walking over to the office. This morning, Klink and his second-in-command, Captain Fritz Gruber, had been called to Gestapo headquarters for some kind of meeting regarding the increasing number of prisoners. And Hogan was curious to know what had happened.

Hogan walked into Klink's office and stopped, surprised to see Gruber behind Klink's desk. "Where's the Kommandant?"

"Major Hochstetter and Colonel Klink drove away this morning," Gruber said. "The major had a prisoner he wanted the Kommandant to see."

"Why?"

"That is none of your business, Colonel Hogan," Gruber said in an annoyed voice. "It concerns only the Kommandant and Major Hochstetter. The Kommandant will be back in a few days. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."

Hogan left the office, frustrated by Gruber's attitude and Klink's disappearance. And a bit uneasy as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Act Two

Scene One

– Two –

"Boy, the Colonel sure is edgy," Sergeant Andrew Carter said softly as he sat outside the barracks, polishing a tool with a stained cloth.

"Yeah, ever since yesterday," Sergeant Richard Baker agreed.

"You know why, don't you?" Sergeant James Kinchloe asked quietly.

"Yeah," Corporal Peter Newkirk said in an almost bitter voice. "Klink again. I don't understand what's happened to the Colonel."

"Aw, he's just worried about the setup here," Corporal Louis LeBeau said. "All the new prisoners."

"You don't believe that any more than I do," Kinch said. "It's Klink."

"Klink!" This time Newkirk did sound bitter. "The bloody idiot who can't do anything right."

"Much as I hate to say it," Baker said, "he's doing some things right."

"Thanks to the Colonel," LeBeau retorted. He turned to Newkirk. "Don't let it get to you, Peter. The Colonel's just stringing him along. That's all."

"Maybe in the past," Kinch said. "Not any more."

"Ever since that bloody cave-in," Newkirk said angrily. "The Colonel's treating Klink like, like . . . "

"Like a human being?" Kinch finished. "No matter how much we'd like to pretend otherwise, and we have for years, Klink is a human being. Maybe a not too bright one, maybe a real dummy. But he is still a human being."

"He's a stinking kraut!" from Newkirk.

Kinch shook his head. "You'd get an argument from the Colonel nowadays. He sees Klink as a foolish man stuck in a job he's not very good at, trying to do the best he can. And the Colonel's helping him along. And he's going to keep on helping Klink no matter how much we dislike the idea."

"Aw, we've always helped Klink. To help ourselves," Carter said.

"Yeah," LeBeau agreed. "That's all."

"Not any more," Kinch argued. "He's helping Klink because he doesn't want Klink to get into trouble. Not because it'll help us. But because he cares about Klink."

"Cares about Klink?! Hah!" Newkirk said.

"Yeah, cares about Klink," Kinch said. "And he probably has for some time but was afraid to admit it. Like it or not, Klink's the closest thing the Colonel's got to a friend in this camp."

"Now you are nuts," LeBeau said.

"Think about it. Yeah, we like the Colonel and respect him. And get along great with him. But he still is the Colonel. The only man of equal rank in this camp is Klink. Not too bright, foolish Klink."

"That doesn't mean he thinks Klink's his friend!" Newkirk retorted.

"Maybe," Kinch said in a noncommittal voice. "But he no longer thinks of Klink as the enemy either."

"Still a far cry from a friend," Newkirk said sullenly.

The argument ended abruptly as Hogan opened the barracks' door.

"Klink still not back?" Hogan asked.

"Nope, still gone," Kinch replied. "But Schultz is back."

Hans Schultz, the sergeant of the guard, had been on leave for a couple of days; a family emergency had taken him home to Heidelberg.

Nodding, Hogan went back inside the barracks and walked over to the potbelly stove. He poured himself a cup of coffee. He was still inexplicably worried about Klink's absence. Worse, he'd had one of his dreams last night. A dream where the Stage, a near mythic resistance leader who had recently saved Hogan's life, Klink, Hochstetter and last month's cave-in were dizzyingly combined. He had awakened in a cold sweat this morning, filled with vague misgivings.

"What's wrong, mon Colonel?" LeBeau asked as they trailed in behind him.

"I don't really know," Hogan admitted as he carried the coffee mug into his room. "For days, I've had this nagging feeling that I'm missing something, something important."

"About Klink?" from Baker.

"Klink, the Gestapo, something." Hogan sat down as the others gathered around him.

"But, Colonel, Klink is . . . Klink," Carter said.

"Yeah, the same lovable Colonel we've always known," Newkirk remarked sarcastically.

"Right," LeBeau said hurriedly as Hogan looked at Newkirk. "Lovable, grumpy."

"Grumpy?" from a distracted Hogan. "He hasn't been lately. When was he grumpy?"

"Well, he was the day he got back from his party."

Hogan looked surprised. "What party?"

"The party he went to the night you went to meet the Stage, mon Colonel."

"You mean Klink left, too?"

"Oui, about fifteen minutes after you did," LeBeau said.

"Why wasn't I told?" Hogan demanded.

"Well, sir, you came back kind of beat," Carter explained. "Klink came back while you were still asleep, and, I, uh, guess, we forgot," he finished sheepishly. "It didn't seem very important."

"Klink came back the next day?"

"Yeah," Newkirk said, "about noon." A grin. "Looked kind of peaked, he did."

"Yeah, and was he grumpy!" LeBeau said. "Must have struck out with the barmaid again."

Hogan wasn't listening; he was remembering that night and his conversation with the wounded Stage. Again that familiar feeling was back. Why did the Stage's voice sound so familiar? Why?!

" . . . Though I swear he did look funny for a minute," LeBeau was saying.

"What?" Hogan asked, suddenly hearing him.

"Klink," LeBeau explained. "I accidentally hit him with a door later. I apologized — "

"You hit him? Hit him where?" Hogan asked.

"In the shoulder. As I said, mon Colonel, a silly accident. But," LeBeau remembered thoughtfully, "for a minute, I swear he looked, I mean, his eyes . . . " A laugh. "If it were anyone else but Klink, I'd swear he was in pain, really in pain." LeBeau shifted uneasily under Hogan's stare. "He didn't even listen to the apology; just waved me away without a word," he finished defensively.

"When was this?" Hogan asked.

"The day after you came back. Right before Hochstetter showed up."

Hogan stared into his coffee. The Stage's voice became louder in his mind and even more familiar. And those blue pain-filled eyes . . .

And there was something else he couldn't quite make out.

"Colonel," Kinch said. "Colonel, are you all right?"

"I don't know," Hogan said, frustrated. "It's there. Something I can't put my finger on. Something right in front . . . " He broke off, staring at something in Carter's hand. "What's that?"

"This?" Carter held up the cloth he was using. "Just something I found. Can't get the stain out, but it's clean."

"Let me see that." Hogan took the fabric from Carter. A sudden chill swept over him as he examined it. "It's a handkerchief."

"Yeah," Carter said. "I guess so."

Hogan's voice was hard. "Where did you find it?"

"In the trash," Carter admitted. "I knocked over one of the cans by accident; it was part of the stuff that fell out. It wasn't ripped so I took it. It's good for cleaning messy things."

"Colonel, what's wrong?" Baker asked.

"It's an American handkerchief," Hogan said flatly.

"Let me see that." Kinch took the cloth from Hogan. "Guess so. Weird. I'd swear this was blood."

"It is blood." Hogan's voice almost shook. "And it's my handkerchief!"

Blood crisscrossing the chest of a beaten man, blood staining the chest of a wounded man. Tight, tense muscles of a man in a cave, then a man in a car.

"Yours, sir?" from a puzzled Newkirk.

"Yes." Hogan's voice was shaking now.

That voice. That quiet, pain-filled voice. Now he knew why it sounded so familiar. He'd heard it before. In a cave. A hot, cramped, filthy cave.

And those blue eyes, filled with pain. Now he could put a face to it. A face drenched with sweat, lined with pain.

"It's the one I used on the Stage's wound that night. The one I left in his car!"

"But how did it get here?" asked Baker.

"Carter," Hogan asked slowly, "where did you find it?"

"Like I said, sir, the trash."

"But where? Which can was it?"

Hogan still couldn't believe. He was hoping, no, praying he was wrong. If he wasn't . . .

"The one from Klink's quarters. I . . . " Carter stopped as Hogan went white.

Horror, total horror, swept over Hogan. All the pieces finally fell into place. All the tiny, unimportant, insignificant snips of information he had ignored for years now made awful sense.

"Colonel . . . Colonel," Kinch repeated. "You don't look too well. Maybe you'd better lie down."

"All this time," Hogan murmured shakily. "And we thought, _I _thought, I was so smart!"

"Colonel, begging your pardon, sir," Baker asked. "But what are you talking about?"

"Don't you see?" Hogan said bitterly. "Put it together."

They stayed quiet, looking at him with concern.

"I go out to meet the Stage. Fifteen minutes later, Klink leaves. I come back after nearly getting the Stage killed and leaving him with a hole in his shoulder. Klink comes back much later, looking ill. LeBeau accidentally hits him, sees the pain but ignores it because it's only Klink. And then Carter finds _my _bloodstained handkerchief in Klink's trash."

After a moment . . .

"No," Kinch said firmly. "Colonel, that's impossible."

Baker nodded his agreement.

"Crazy," LeBeau added.

"Colonel, if you're saying what I think you're saying . . . " Newkirk said slowly. He stared at Hogan. "Sir, with all due respect, that's _nuts_!"

"Uh, am I missing something?" Carter looked puzzled.

"We all have," Hogan muttered angrily.

"The Colonel thinks that Klink is the Stage," Kinch explained, looking at Hogan worriedly.

"Klink!" Carter exclaimed. "Colonel, that is nuts!"

"Yeah? Then you explain it!" Hogan shot back angrily.

"Just a coincidence. A freaky coincidence," Newkirk said.

"I — "

A knock on the door interrupted him and Sergeant Hans Schultz entered, carrying a mail pouch.

"Hey, Schultz," LeBeau said brightly. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," Schultz said solemnly and looked at Hogan. "Excuse me, Colonel Hogan. But do you know where Kommandant Klink is? Captain Gruber is not here and no one else seems to know."

Hogan looked at Schultz closely, for the first time noticing something deep in the dull eyes.

"Schultz," Hogan took a deep breath, "yesterday, Colonel Klink paid a visit to Major Hochstetter. He never came back." Hogan blinked at the sudden flash in those dull eyes. "He's supposed to be on some sort of mission for the Gestapo."

The large sergeant stared at him. "Colonel Hogan, I am not in the mood for unfunny jokes." Schultz sounded almost angry. "Where is the Kommandant?"

"We told you," LeBeau began.

"Shut up!" Schultz snapped.

LeBeau looked hurt as he fell silent.

"You are not joking?" Schultz asked Hogan.

Their eyes met.

"Sergeant Schultz, I wish I were," Hogan said fervently.

"Colonel Hogan, I have one question for you. And I would like the truth, please." Schultz's voice was heavy. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

Hogan shook his head. "No, Schultz, I'm sorry. But this time, I didn't."

Schultz stared at him for a long moment, the men around him becoming uneasy.

"Uh, Schultz . . . " began Carter.

A cutting wave of Schultz's hand. Carter shut up.

Schultz slowly dropped the pouch on the table, pawing through it for something. A magazine.

The men around him grinned. It was a girlie magazine, one Klink got. Then their smiles faded. The way Schultz leafed through it wasn't very funny; he was like a man possessed.

Schultz found the spot he wanted and read for a moment. Then he looked at the very somber Hogan.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz said slowly, "seventy-two hours ago, a resistance leader by the name of Pflueger was captured by the Gestapo."

Hogan's men, exchanging startled glances, slowly straightened as Hogan watched Schultz intently.

"Pflueger is one of the few men in Germany who can — "

"Who can identify Kommandant Wilhelm Klink as the Stage," Hogan finished soberly.

Schultz's eyes met his. "Yes, Colonel Hogan." A deathly quiet voice. "He can."

The awful silence was deafening.


	3. Chapter 3

Act Two

Scene One

– Three –

The dark, unmarked car sped swiftly through the snowy countryside as Colonel Wilhelm Klink sat quietly in the back of it. Finally, the car stopped in front of a sturdy stone building.

Klink got out of the car and gazed at the two-story building. It looked like a farmhouse with no outside trappings to identify it as an SS or Gestapo installation. The vague misgivings he had felt since they left Gestapo headquarters a few hours ago were starting to take shape.

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter waited for Klink at the door. It opened, and Hochstetter gestured for Klink to enter. The inside was sparsely furnished with only a few pieces of furniture. It was also remarkably unpopulated with staff, unlike Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg. None of the usual office staff was present, nor as many guards. Hochstetter removed his overcoat and indicated that Klink should do the same.

Somewhat reluctantly, Klink complied. Suddenly, all his senses seemed to be on overload. He was noticing everything, from the number of guards in the room — six — to the cobwebs high on the ceiling. The noise of the men's boots as they walked seemed clamorous, the sound of his own heartbeat deafening in his ears.

"Colonel Klink," Hochstetter was saying, "I think you will be interested in this. Follow me."

Klink forced his voice to sound normal. "Of course, Major Hochstetter." Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Before we go up, Colonel, I must insist that you leave your riding crop and monocle with the guard down here," Hochstetter said pleasantly enough.

Klink frowned. "An odd request, Major."

Hochstetter smiled chillingly. "Security, Colonel. Nothing is allowed upstairs that might be used as a weapon."

"Of course," Klink agreed ironically as he placed the items on the desk.

They walked up the stairs, two guards with machine guns following behind them.

_Flee!_ Every instinct he possessed told Klink to run. But a swift glance at the armed men, it would be suicide. Perhaps he should risk it anyway.

Too late.

They halted in a long, dark hallway with several doors leading off it.

"The building is several hundred years old," Hochstetter was saying. "The stone walls are two feet thick, even between the rooms. Quite soundproof. Quite escape proof." He opened a door. "This might interest you, Kommandant."

Hochstetter stepped aside and let Klink enter.

The stone room, harshly lit with a naked bulb, had nothing in it but dank hay and a bucket. It also stank. Nothing . . .

Klink's eyes fell on the hay. There was something there. Or someone.

One of the guards went to the prone figure and yanked it to its feet. The man whimpered as he was thrust into the light. Klink's stomach twisted as the man fell, staring up at Klink as he did so. The man's face, barely recognizable, was battered and bloody, his hands twisted claws emerging from mangled, broken arms. Puffy, bleeding eyes teared as they stared up at Klink.

"I'm sorry," he muttered almost incoherently. "I tried . . . But I couldn't . . . " He broke into loud, painful sobs.

"He couldn't name you, Klink," Hochstetter gloated. "But he could describe you. Very well. Or should I say, 'Stage'?"

Klink, ignoring Hochstetter and the fear that twisted inside his chest, knelt beside the tortured man, helping him sit up.

"I wouldn't bother with him," Hochstetter said with a contemptuous sneer. "He's of no further use to anyone now." He gestured and Klink was pulled roughly to his feet.

Klink faced Hochstetter, seemingly unafraid.

"No words, 'Stage'?" Hochstetter pressed.

A thin smile. "What is there to say?"

A cruel smile in return. "Oh, there is plenty to say, Klink. And before we are through with you, you will beg to say it all." A curt motion of his hand. "Take him away."

Klink started toward the door and then paused; a shot had sounded behind him. After a moment, he began walking again.

The cell next door, with two waiting guards, was just as harshly lit, just as dank but bigger. There was a rack-like contraption on the right side of the cell. A console of some sort was just to the right of the entrance with wires leading from it to the rack. Chains hung at various heights on the wall to the left of the rack over piles of straw.

Klink looked around dispassionately and turned to face Hochstetter as two men moved up behind him.

"There is one more way to identify the Stage, Klink," Hochstetter said. "Not too long ago, he was shot while evading a trap."

Klink's arms were pulled tightly behind his back. Hochstetter pushed the uniform jacket off Klink's shoulders and roughly pulled off Klink's tie. He then yanked at the material of Klink's shirt, scattering buttons, ripping the fabric across Klink's chest. Hochstetter threw the ripped piece aside.

"An interesting scar for a man who's never been in combat, Kommandant Klink. Would you care to explain it?"

Klink stayed silent.

"No, I didn't think so." Hochstetter turned away. "Soften him up first," he told the guard who had come in quietly. "But no physical damage, if you please. I do not want to do anything that will help him die." Smiling, Hochstetter turned back to Klink. "We will talk later, Klink." He left the room.

Klink tried to relax in the unrelenting grip of his captors as he faced the newcomer.

The man slowly slipped on a pair of gloves.

A tight knot of fear in his stomach, Kommandant Wilhelm Klink waited for the blows to begin.

...

The cell door rattled; Klink looked up as Hochstetter entered.

Hochstetter grinned as he saw the seated man chained to the wall by his right wrist. Klink looked battered, his clothes already grimy from the dirt of the cell. His ripped shirt had been removed, though he had been allowed to keep his uniform jacket. After the beating, one of the guards had removed Klink's suspenders. It would not do to have such an important guest commit suicide.

A guard went to Klink and undid the manacle around his wrist, pulling him to his feet.

"Let me tell you what is going to happen, Klink," Hochstetter said as Klink, rubbing his sore wrist, faced him. "That device over there causes the most exquisite pain, but it does no permanent damage.

"I have no desire to kill you, Klink, or inflict bodily injury. When I deliver you to your trial, there will be few marks on you to elicit sympathy. You will be given water, fed; you will not wallow in your own filth. When the Stage appears, it will be as if he betrayed his cause of his own free will. It will be utterly demoralizing to his followers and those who think of him as some kind of hero.

"Now, Klink, I am not an unreasonable man so I will ask you this just once. I want names, addresses, codes — all the information about your organization that you possess. Give them to me now and your death will be swift and painless."

Klink stayed silent.

Hochstetter grinned. "I had hoped you would be stubborn." He stepped closer to Klink. "I hope you do not break too easily, Klink. I want to enjoy every one of your screams."

At a signal, Klink was dragged over to the rack and shackled on it. Hochstetter went over to the console and turned a switch. A low hum sounded.

"This supplies current to the manacles around your wrists, Klink," Hochstetter explained. He turned a knob; the man on the rack started.

Hochstetter grinned. "I see you understand the concept. It can be low, or higher." He turned it again; Klink shifted uncomfortably.

"Or higher still."

A gasp from the man on the rack.

"Or even . . . " Hochstetter twisted the knob savagely.

Klink screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

Act Two

Scene One

– Four –

A pale Robert Hogan sat with his clenched fists against his forehead. Carter aimlessly polished the tool in his hand while LeBeau had his eyes on the ashen-faced Schultz. Newkirk, shaking his head in disbelief, was staring out the window. Kinch and Baker watched Hogan closely, understanding his agony. All of them had seen the growing bond between Hogan and Klink since the cave-in. Seen and not understood. And to some extent resented it.

Finally, Schultz stirred. "Excuse me, please." His voice was lifeless. "There is a very important telephone call I must make."

Hogan stood slowly, determination replacing the shock in his eyes. "You can make it here, Schultz. From the tunnel."

Schultz nodded tiredly, not surprised at the mention of the tunnel.

Hogan went out first, followed by Schultz and the still stunned men. The barracks was empty; Hogan activated the entrance.

_Good. No one else needed to know about what was going on,_ Hogan thought as he started down the ladder. _Right now, the fewer people who knew the better. All too quickly, everyone else might find out. But not now. Not yet._

_..._

Kinchloe put the call through.

Schultz spoke slowly, deliberately in German. "I am calling regarding the play you inquired about. I regret to say that twenty-four hours ago the play was canceled. The stage is broken. I repeat, the stage is broken." He ended the connection. "So ends my part, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said heavily. "The message will be passed to units all over Germany. Each unit has its own escape plans." He looked at Hogan. "You also must leave."

"What about you?" Hogan asked quietly.

"My orders are the same. But," a sudden shininess in his eyes, "I cannot leave. I cannot leave him, knowing what they are doing to him. I cannot . . . " His voice broke and he turned away.

Hogan watched as the massive shoulders shook and looked at his men. "We're not part of the Stage's organization," Hogan said soberly. "His orders don't apply to us. But he knows who we are. When they break him," a sudden pain inside his chest, "they'll come after us too."

Kinch asked the question. "What are you going to do, Colonel?"

They half-expected the answer. "I'm going to try and get Klink away from them."

His men exchanged bleak glances.

"I'm not going to ask for volunteers." Hogan said evenly. "This time, the odds are whoever goes won't get back alive. The rest of you, use the escape route and get back to London."

"You're going after him alone," Baker said flatly.

"I owe him that much."

"No, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said in a thick voice, turning around. "You owe him nothing. You reacted exactly the way you were supposed to react."

A tiny smile. "Yes, I did. But I owe him my life. And," he added cryptically, "I made him a promise. One I intend to keep."

"Sir," Carter asked, "do we have to decide anything yet?"

Hogan smiled faintly. "No, you don't have to decide yet. There's still time. But first," he said to Kinch, "put a call through to our friendly major in Abwehr."

Kinch grinned and made the call.

In Berlin, Major Hans Teppel(1) of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence agency, answered the telephone.

"Major, this is Colonel Hogansmeyer," a voice said.

Teppel, in reality Robert J. Morrison, a U.S. agent, grinned as he recognized the voice. "Yes, Colonel. What can I do for you?"

"First, is your aunt Viktoria still as deaf as ever?"

"Yes, Colonel, very deaf."

"Good." Hogan resumed his normal voice. "Listen carefully. The Gestapo has taken one of the biggest resistance leaders. But he's not being held in Hammelburg. We need to know if there's a special interrogation center nearby or if he's been taken to Berlin."

"Who caught him?"

"Hochstetter."

"That so-and-so. He wouldn't bring a big shot here; he's too greedy. Who did he get?"

"The Stage."

The major's grip tightened on the telephone. "Hochstetter has always made particularly nasty threats about him," Teppel said soberly. "I would bet he's not here, but you never know. I'll inquire discreetly. There is always a chance that he's here under his real name. I wouldn't ask, but . . . "

"Colonel Wilhelm Klink."

Teppel sucked in his breath sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Very."

"I . . . I hope I get a chance to meet him again."

A fervent, "So do I!"

"It will take time."

"I know. I also want you to arrange to get five of us — Carter, Newkirk, LeBeau, Kinch and I — out of camp legally. And we'll need Schultz too."

"I can get that done in an hour or so. But the rest . . . Look, it may be twenty-four hours or more before I can get an answer. You know what Hochstetter's doing to him."

A spasm inside Hogan's chest. "Yes. We'll call back every six hours. Be in."

"I will be. Good luck."

"To both of us."

Hogan put the phone down and turned to Schultz. "He'll get us out of camp in an hour or so. But he may not find anything until tomorrow. Things could get very hot around here."

Schultz wet dry lips. "I . . . understand." Then he added, "He has always promised to give his people at least forty-eight hours."

"How can anyone promise anything like that?!" LeBeau exclaimed.

"The Stage can!" Schultz said proudly. "You have not seen him like I have."

"I saw," Hogan said quietly. "In the cave, when he was trapped. Only I was too blind to realize it. Then later, when I removed that bullet from his shoulder. Not a sound. Then or later."

"I, too, have removed bullets, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said soberly. "More than one. We have never had any painkillers. Sometimes, I would have to cauterize the wound. LeBeau accidentally reopened the last one; it needed to be cauterized."

LeBeau paled.

"Afterwards, I have watched him walk across the compound. Greet you and visitors alike without a word, a groan, a hint of his pain. He will give forty-eight hours, LeBeau. He will give more." Then his voice became a whisper. "But what I have always feared the most is hearing him scream. As long as he did not, somehow, the pain did not seem real." Schultz stared blankly at Hogan. "Hochstetter will make him scream."

Hogan shivered. For once, he had nothing to say. There was nothing to say.

...

They had no trouble getting out of the camp just over an hour later. Their departure was watched with mild surprise by some and worry by others.

Captain Gruber was surprised at the call from Major Teppel but, as Hogan had expected, went along with the orders from Abwehr. Gruber was glad that Hogan was leaving for a few days; Hogan had always made him uncomfortable. Klink seemed to be able to handle the American far better than Gruber could, especially lately. With Hogan gone, at least the camp would be quiet for a few days.

With far too somber eyes, Captain Edward Martin, Captain John Mitchell and Captain Jerry Warren watched the departure from Hogan's room. The three men were the highest-ranking officers in the camp after Hogan. Martin(2), the senior captain, had been in the camp the longest. 

Warren(3) had been an escapee from another camp and had been on his way to England when his escape went wrong. Instead of transferring Warren to another camp, Klink decided to keep him at Stalag 13, preventing another escape attempt. Mitchell(4) had had the misfortune to have his plane crash just outside the camp; he too became a permanent guest in the camp.

The three men had had little to do with Hogan's operations Hogan preferred having few of the men in camp involved with his outside activities. But now the three found themselves in charge of a camp that might have some radical changes made to it. Hogan hadn't told them much, only that he and his men were going away for a special interrogation. The three captains hadn't been too concerned at first; Hogan and his men had been questioned before. But then Hogan admitted that there was a good chance that he and his men might not be returning to the camp. Out of choice or, as Hogan admitted soberly, because they were dead or in prison. If Hogan chose not to return, then they would remain in charge of Stalag 13 until the end of the war. But if Hogan didn't return for other reasons, then they were to follow Baker's instructions. At any rate, in ninety-six hours, they would know one way or another.

Sergeant Richard Baker watched their departure from outside Barracks 2. He hadn't been surprised when Hogan chose not to take him. He'd figured that one of them would have to stay behind — only they really knew what needed to be done if the worst happened. And Baker was the logical choice. He'd been the odd man out, the latecomer to the team. He'd joined Hogan's inner circle when Kinchloe broke his leg last year. It had been a particularly bad break with complications, necessitating a long-term stay in the camp infirmary. Baker had helped on a few missions before when Kinch had come down with the flu, and had been asked by Hogan to fill in for Kinch after he broke his leg. Since Kinch's return, Baker continued to help out, alternating radio and phone duties with Kinch; there was more than enough work to keep them busy.

Now with the group facing the worst danger they had ever been in, Baker was left behind. He would wait ninety-six hours for word from Hogan or any of them. If they decided not to return to the camp or if he hadn't heard from them within the designated time, Baker's orders were to make his own escape. Twelve hours later, if the three captains agreed, the biggest mass escape in Germany would take place. But if he saw the Gestapo arriving, Baker was to leave camp immediately. Explosives had already been planted throughout the camp, ready if need be to blow up the tunnels beneath the camp. Baker could only hope it wouldn't be necessary to go that far. And he prayed that all would go well for his friends. But he had to admit to himself as he turned back to the barracks, the odds were that he'd 

never see them again. And he prayed that if that were the case, the end would come swiftly for his friends. He found himself shivering from that thought as he walked back into the barracks.

...

The car finally stopped at a small cabin about an hour's drive from the camp. It was hidden in heavy woods and in very rugged terrain. A couple of times during the drive, Hogan had wondered if Schultz knew where he was going. But the difficulty of the trip was an added security advantage. This hideout was safe from all prying eyes.

They got out of the car and walked over to the door. Schultz took a key from his pocket. To their surprise, he walked over to an old tree. From a hole used by nesting squirrels, he took another key. Then he walked back to the door and inserted the keys in tandem into the lock.

"If I did not," Schultz explained, "this building would blow up. Along with me."

Carter was impressed. "Nice."

The door opened and they followed Schultz inside.

The cabin was small. There was a living area with a potbelly stove to supply the heat and cooking space; a compact icebox stood in the far corner. Dishes and kitchen utensils were stacked on a counter next to an old-fashioned pump sink. In the middle of the room stood a small table with a couple of chairs around it. Kerosene lamps were scattered around to provide light. A portable generator along with a sophisticated radio transmitter stood in a corner. Before one of the two shuttered windows was a comfortable old chair beside a well-stocked bookcase.

Hogan wandered over to the bookcase curiously. A few of the books were in English; others were in French, German, Italian, Latin and Greek. They were the great works of the literary world, many of them long banned by the Nazis.

Greek? Latin? Klink?

Hogan shook his head in disbelief and picked up one of the books. Virgil. He thumbed through it. The book, like the others, showed signs of frequent use.

Schultz gestured. "His retreat. He would come here to do most of his planning. Sometimes, he would come just to get away from the life he was leading."

Hogan returned the book to the shelf and walked over to the door in the left wall. He opened the door unto a small, spare bedroom furnished with a bed, a chair, a nightstand, a chest and another bookcase. This bookcase held a portable record player on top and records on the shelves. There was another door in the right wall. Hogan opened it; it led to a primitive shower and toilet. Hogan walked back into the living room.

"Colonel, we'll need a phone, if we're going to call Berlin," Kinch reminded him.

"The cupboard under the sink," Schultz said.

Kinch went over to it and pulled out a portable telephone. He examined it closely and whistled his appreciation.

"He used it to direct his operations," Schultz explained.

LeBeau had opened up the cupboards over the counter. "Very nice. All kinds of goodies."

"Think he'd mind if we made some coffee?" Hogan asked Schultz.

The large Sergeant shook his head. "No." Then "It is useless!" he said tiredly. "Why are we even here? We will not be able to find him!"

"Do you want to leave?" Hogan asked quietly.

"No." A heavy sigh. "Forgive me, Colonel. It is just that — "

"I know," Hogan said soothingly. "But it will take time."

"Time." Schultz turned away from him and stared out the window.

Time.

Hogan stared at the bookcase. It had been nearly thirty hours since Klink had disappeared. Thirty hours of what for Klink.

Perhaps Hochstetter was content to let Klink stay in a cell. Perhaps . . .

Who was he trying to kid? Hochstetter hated Klink. And he hated the Stage. To discover that the two were in fact the same man must have overjoyed the sadistic Gestapo major. Only last week Hochstetter had made that threat against Klink, spelling out exactly what he would do to Klink if he were able. But until now, much as he would have liked to hurt Klink, he couldn't. Though there had been a few times in the past when it looked like Hochstetter would get his wish. Last year, Hochstetter had thought Klink guilty of a sabotage job that Hogan and his men had pulled(5). Even then, Hogan, playing his own role with a relish, couldn't help but notice how pleased Hochstetter seemed to be to have Klink in his hands, especially when Klink refused to admit his guilt. Then last month when Hogan had turned Klink into the Gestapo. Fortunately, Hochstetter had been gone at the time. If he had been there, Hochstetter, unlike his subordinate, wouldn't have been content with questioning Klink and locking him in a cell for the night. Schultz and the Stage had been right. Klink, even the Klink he'd thought he'd despised, didn't deserve what Hochstetter would have done.

And now Hochstetter had not only Klink, but also the Stage. A man who had operated inside Germany for years. A man that every Gestapo and SS agent in Germany had been hunting. What a prize for Hochstetter!

Hogan was hoping he'd read Hochstetter's personality right. Hoping that Hochstetter wouldn't be content to share his prize. Hoping that Hochstetter would want to deliver the Stage personally to Berlin along with every piece of information he could wring from the Stage. That's what Hogan was counting on. That Hochstetter would have Klink safely hidden somewhere, away from prying SS or Gestapo eyes. If that were the case, there should be few guards around. If Hogan and his men could locate that place, then maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to get Klink and themselves out alive.

But how long would it take to get a location from Teppel? Assuming there was a location to be had? Hogan had no idea. He had put out cautious feelers among the local resistance groups before leaving Stalag 13, hoping one of them might know something. For now, that was all he could do.

Except wait.

Wait.

And Klink? Hogan shivered. Schultz was right. Hochstetter would make him scream. And enjoy every minute of it.

* * *

1 "Bad Day at Berlin"

2"The Gold Rush"

3"The Flame Grows Higher"

4"The Big Gamble"

5"Will the Real Colonel Klink Please Stand Up Against the Wall?"


	5. Chapter 5

Act Two

Scene One

– Five –

Nightfall.

Hogan closed the shutters in the small bedroom and went back into the main room. Klink had been gone thirty-five hours and they still had no clues to his whereabouts. They had spent the day making plans, getting their gear together and were ready to take off at a moment's notice. Now all they could do was wait. Wait. It was hard on all of them, the hardest on Schultz.

Odd. Hogan hadn't noticed the real relationship between Klink and Schultz. He hadn't noticed a lot of things, he thought bleakly. Come to think of it, he still wasn't sure what their relationship was.

Ask Schultz. Keep him talking so he doesn't do any thinking. So none of them do. The night was going to be very long.

...

Schultz toyed with his food.

LeBeau raised a brow; Schultz not eating?

Hogan broke the silence. "How long have you known?"

Schultz barely looked at him. "Shortly after the Kommandant arrived at the camp, he told me."

"Must have been a shock," LeBeau commented.

"It was. And an honor. That he should trust me so." Schultz shook his head in wonder.

"It looks like he picked the right man for the job," Kinch said quietly.

"Danke." Schultz sighed. "It has not been easy. For him even less so."

"So," Carter asked curiously, "who is the Stage? Really?"

Schultz shrugged. "Believe it or not, Carter, just an ordinary man."

"Ordinary? The Stage? Are you kidding?" Newkirk exclaimed.

"Well, maybe not," Schultz reconsidered. "At least not now. But when it all started, he was. A very ordinary man."

"When did it start?" Hogan asked.

"Back in 1933."

"1933!" Kinch said.

Schultz nodded. "Germany was a very unhappy place back then. The Depression was very hard here, more so than in many other countries. Many people were desperate. And desperate people do not think very clearly. Except one ordinary man.

"I know very little about his life back then," Schultz admitted. "He does not talk much about himself. I know he has never been happy in the military. He went into it because his father wanted his oldest son to follow the family tradition. Any other dreams he had were abandoned at his father's insistence."

"Doesn't sound very fair," commented Carter.

"No," agreed Schultz. "But it is the wish of many men to have their sons follow their dreams. And Wilhelm Klink honored his father and did as he wished.

"Of course, he did not do too well in his unchosen career. He has always been a loner, a very private man few knew. As a result, he was often thought not to be too smart by those who did not know him.

"Nor is he a social man. Good books, music, art, those are his loves. Not parties or nights out. When he was younger, he had a reputation as an unathletic klutz. And the reputation remained even after it was no longer true."

"Sounds like the Klink we know," Kinch said.

"The Kommandant is the extreme of him," Schultz said. "Perhaps back then, he was not much to speak of. But are most people? Perhaps if things had not been so terrible here, he would have stayed the same. Had a less than average career, finding pleasure in other ways. Perhaps he might even have married and had children.

"But even ordinary people have certain gifts. And this ordinary man did have one talent. An ability to understand people and know them for what they truly are. It let him avoid people he did not care to know and to avoid problems he did not wish to deal with. If others thought him unfriendly, he did not care." There was a thoughtful look on Schultz's face. "Sometimes I think the only person whose opinion he cared for was his sister. Other people, it did not matter what they thought of him. And what they thought of him was often not kind."

"But what about the Stage?" Newkirk asked impatiently. "What started the Stage?"

"Hitler started it, Newkirk," Schultz said. "Back then, we Germans were told all kinds of things by the Nazis. The Nazis promised food, shelter, prosperity. And many, too many, believed."

LeBeau snorted derisively.

Schultz looked at him reprovingly. "Hungry people, people with nothing, will believe anyone who promises them something. And Hitler promised and made it sound so simple. Even those who did not become Nazis saw many things to admire in their ideas. At first, even I did. There was enough truth in their lies to deceive many.

"But not Wilhelm Klink. He read their books and papers, attended their meetings. And he was able to see past the propaganda, the promises and, yes, even the small truths. He saw the horror, the hatred and the madness to come. He saw that long before many others did, including the supposed experts and intellectuals in your countries." He looked at the American officer across from him. "Surprised, Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan glanced at the bookshelf behind him. "Not anymore," he admitted softly.

Schultz smiled faintly. "He knew he could not fight the Nazis openly. Even back then, people disappeared or were killed. He also knew he could not fight them as the man he was. So secretly he began to study, to learn. 

This man who could only just hit a target on a shooting range began to practice long hours until he became an expert shot. He learned about self-defense, explosives, everything and anything that might be of some use to him. To his surprise, I think, he discovered talents and abilities he didn't know he had."

"He just needed a catalyst," Hogan said thoughtfully.

"Yes. And a disguise. He knew himself as well as he knew others. He knew what his faults and weaknesses were. So he used them. The undistinguished man became less distinguished. He needed to be good enough to become a colonel and stay a colonel. But he needed to be bad enough to keep from being sent out of Germany where his usefulness would be limited.

"So Kommandant Klink was born. He exaggerated all the deficiencies in his character. He became inept, stupid, arrogant, a bore. A man few liked or cared to like. And it was a role he played twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year for many years. A role he could and did play in his sleep."

"And the Stage?" Hogan asked quietly.

"The Stage is the complete opposite. Intelligent, fearless, an expert in everything, unmindful of all hardships. He attracted fierce loyalty from everyone who came in contact with him.

"He did not start out that way of course. He grew slowly into the hero. No one knew who he was, where he came from. He was always secretive, always successful.

"Few people ever saw the Stage. Even I rarely saw him. I know almost nothing about his organization. Rarely did I know about his missions. He wanted it that way to protect me. And himself. But I was to be there for the few times he needed my help. In the eyes of the world, the Stage was always successful. Only I saw his failures. He needed me for that."

"Bitter, Schultz?" Hogan asked.

"Nein, I am no soldier. It was an honor to be involved. I wanted to help where I could.

"But it has been difficult. The Kommandant Klink you saw was the Kommandant Klink I saw. He would go for days without breaking character. Then unexpectedly, he would be the Stage again for an hour, a day."

"But why the charade all the time?" Newkirk wanted to know.

"Safety," Schultz said simply. "He never knew who might be listening in."

Hogan and his men grinned ruefully.

"Occasionally, he must travel, share quarters with others. He had to react as Kommandant Klink without thought. In his sleep if he had to."

"And he did," Hogan said. "That explains why he sounded so familiar when he was unconscious."

"Yes. But that time it nearly backfired. Though if it were anyone else, Colonel Hogan, I doubt if they would have noticed."

"Yeah," Hogan said with a faint smile. "How many people know what Kommandant Klink sounds like in his sleep?"

Schultz returned the smile almost reluctantly. "I would say that most are in this room."

"Colonel," Kinch interrupted, "time for the call again."

Hogan sighed and nodded.

...

Hogan hung up the phone slowly.

"No news?" Schultz said in a dead voice.

Hogan shook his head.

Schultz turned away and hurriedly left the cabin.

"Colonel," Carter asked hesitantly, "do you really think we'll hear anything?"

"The truth? I don't know," Hogan admitted.

"Colonel, it's been nearly forty hours," Kinch said softly.

"I know!" Hogan sounded angrier than he really was. "Sorry."

"Kinch has a point, mon Colonel. Despite what Schultz said, how long can anyone, including the Stage, hold out against those monsters?"

"Do you want to leave?" Hogan asked them quietly.

A general shaking of heads.

"No, sir," Newkirk said. "We're with you. All the way. You see, sir, you're not the only one who owes him an apology."

"I just pray we can say it," Kinch echoed.

"So do I," Hogan said quietly. "Look, it's getting late. You get some sleep; I'll take the first watch."

The others nodded and prepared to settle down for the night.

It was odd, Hogan noticed, but no one wanted to use the bedroom. They felt like intruders in the little cabin and wanted to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

Hogan went out into the freezing cold. Schultz stood near the car, staring at the stars. Hogan went over to him.

"I am sorry, Colonel Hogan." Schultz's voice held tears. "I am afraid I am not much help."

"You're doing fine," Hogan said soothingly. "Unfortunately, right now all we can do is wait."

A heavy sigh. "I know."

"Schultz," Hogan asked after a long silence, "why didn't he say anything to me?"

Schultz shrugged. "I do not know, Colonel Hogan. From the time you arrived in camp, I hoped he would tell you. A few times, I think he almost did. But nothing ever came of it. At least in the past," he amended. "I think he was finally going to tell you. I know he was planning something special for your group."

"Why did you want me to know, Schultz?" was the soft question.

"Because . . . "

Silence.

"Because of the way I treated him?" Hogan finished.

"Partly, Colonel Hogan. I do not know if you meant to, but you hurt him more than once. The man, not the Stage. I imagine the Stage would have approved."

"He didn't on one occasion," Hogan remembered with a guilty pang.

"Yes. I know," Schultz said. "That was the first time I ever saw him truly angry. As both Kommandant Klink and the Stage."

"You were angry too."

"Ja, I was. You overstepped the bounds, Colonel Hogan."

A sigh. "I know."

"He almost retaliated. I know he was thinking of getting rid of you," Schultz said to Hogan's surprise. "Fortunately for all of us, he changed his mind. Instead, I kept hoping he would say something to you."

"Again, why?"

"Because he is a very tired man, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said. "The hints that led you to suspect him prove that. He would not have made those mistakes a few years ago, even a few months ago. He has been fighting his war before any of you knew Germany existed. Living two, three lives, often at the same time. He would go from being Kommandant Klink during the day to the Stage at night and back to Kommandant Klink. Sometimes going days at a time without sleep. Or living with pain but having to pretend nothing was wrong. Even away from the camp, he was Kommandant Klink or the Stage. Rarely, very rarely, would he allow himself to be the man he is inside.

"Can you imagine what it must be like, Colonel Hogan, to never be yourself? Sometimes, I think he has forgotten who he really is." A tired sigh. "That is why I wish he had told you, Colonel Hogan. If you knew, then perhaps Wilhelm Klink could live again. At least for a little time.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz's voice grew almost desperate, "there is so much to admire about the real Wilhelm Klink. And I hoped that if you knew, you could see beyond the Stage and learn to know the real man. And care for him as well. So few people care about Wilhelm Klink."

"You care, Sergeant Schultz," Hogan said quietly.

"Ja, I do." His eyes met Hogan's. "But I am just a toy maker(1) playing soldier."

Hogan turned away.

"I . . . I also hoped that something good had come of the cave-in. That maybe you did not hate him anymore. That maybe you could . . . "

Hogan stayed quiet, reluctant even now to talk about how he felt about Klink.

A sigh from Schultz. "You do not have to stand guard, Colonel Hogan. This place is very well protected. I set all the security traps earlier." He started toward the cabin.

Hogan nodded. Then . . . "Schultz." Their eyes met. "I'd like to know the man you know. Really know him."

"Because he is the Stage?" Schultz challenged.

"No," Hogan said quietly. "Because he's taught me more about courage than anyone I've ever met. Not only as the Stage. But also as Kommandant Klink when he was buried in that rubble. And because he's taught me a lesson about people I needed to learn." A deep breath. "I will never again judge a man by what he appears to be. Nor will I ever treat a human being as anything less than a human being."

"An invaluable lesson, Colonel Hogan."

"Taught by an invaluable man. Get some sleep, Schultz. It may be a long night."

"Ja. You should sleep as well. Good night, Colonel." Schultz entered the cabin.

Sleep. Hogan glanced at his watch. Midnight. Forty hours since Klink disappeared. Was he even alive?

Dumb question. Hochstetter wouldn't let him die. Not easily.

Hogan shivered, only partly from the cold. He walked around the car and leaned against it, his eyes on the sky. A clear night. Just like the night he was nearly killed when the Stage saved his life.

The Stage? No. Wilhelm Klink saved his life. Risking his own. Something Klink didn't need to do. He could have left Hogan to fend for himself and not risk capture or death.

A faint smile. What had the Stage or rather Klink called it? A symbiotic relationship. He and Klink. They had worked well together, hadn't they? Even if only Klink knew about it at the time.

Three years. A long time.

Hogan moved restlessly. He was besieged by memories. Odd bits of things that had bothered him just a little when they happened. Things he had in the end shrugged off as meaningless. Now he saw them for what they were. Glimpses of a man, a courageous, intelligent, sensitive man, hiding behind a mask. The mask had slipped while they were trapped in that cave.

Why couldn't he see it then? Why?

A sudden overwhelming sense of loss swept over him. And pain. Was it too late? Was his . . . ?

Funny, he almost said, "friend".

He stood still. It wasn't funny at all. He had begun to think of Klink as a friend ever since the cave-in. No, even before the cave-in. Long before the cave-in. Why hadn't he admitted it before? If he had . . .

The pain was sharper now, almost physical.

Maybe subconsciously he had realized what was really going on. Since the cave-in, he and Klink had developed an open respect for each other, an odd friendship.

Oh God, there was so much lost time to make up for. He prayed that it wasn't already too late.

* * *

1"War Takes a Holiday"


	6. Chapter 6

Act Two

Scene One

– Six –

Wilhelm Klink was half lying, half slumped against the bottom of the wall to which his right wrist was chained. His eyes barely flicked open as a guard placed a tin of water and a bowl of stew on the floor beside him. The guard then took the slop bucket, replacing it with an empty one before leaving the cell.

He would be alone now; they would even let him sleep. But not for long. In time, fatigue would be as much his nemesis as that infernal rack.

Klink stared at the tin of water for a moment before lifting it with his left hand. The chain on his right wrist didn't give him much slack. As a result, he had to use his left hand for eating and drinking. Annoying, but no real hardship. He had forced himself long ago to learn to use his left hand. He was not quite ambidextrous but he managed quite well when he had to. A small smile; some descriptions of the Stage even had him listed as left-handed.

He took a swallow of the surprisingly cool water. When they first gave him the food and water, he, very briefly, considered refusing it. But Hochstetter would not leave him the option of starving to death; he would be ignominiously force-fed. As for the water, well, water torture left no marks and in its way would probably be just as bad as the rack.

Another gulp of water. Then he picked up the stew and straightened up as much as the chain allowed, the bowl resting on his lap.

In the beginning, he had been suspicious of the food. He had expected it to be rancid and spoiled. Or drugged. But Hochstetter had decided against drugs; he was settling old scores by using the rack. And the food was as decent as anywhere in Germany this late in the war. Hochstetter was making sure he kept reasonably healthy.

Klink took a bite of the stew, put the bowl down and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closing. The problem was that he had no appetite. Nor could he keep what solids he had eaten down. Did Hochstetter realize that?

Probably. Hochstetter was no stranger to torture. He would probably be given some sort of liquid nutrients as time went on.

Time. Time was both his enemy and his friend now.

Klink glanced at the watch they had left him. Forty hours. He returned the watch to his pocket. Forty hours of his life gone.

Hochstetter had planned his arrest at an ideal time. Schultz, big, naive, bumbling Schultz, was on a rare leave from the camp. It had come about unexpectedly; his wife had suddenly become seriously ill. Schultz had requested the leave to arrange some help for her, and Kommandant Klink, in his officious way, generously allowed Schultz to take the leave. A leave that was supposed to have ended yesterday morning. A full twenty-four hours after Klink had been captured.

Twenty-four hours. That much time before word could be passed on to his organization. And that assuming Schultz would realize what had happened.

Schultz would know what had happened; if not immediately, then shortly after he returned to camp. The seemingly inept sergeant was not the fool he appeared to be. He was totally unsuited to be in the military of course. But his size and innocent face were very deceptive.

Klink had cultivated then Corporal Hans Schultz shortly after Klink's assignment to the camp. He'd seen behind Schultz's rather large exterior and he knew that an inept fool could not run one of the most successful companies in pre-war Germany1. Klink had compiled a rather detailed file on Corporal Schultz before he arrived at Stalag 13, a file that led him to enlist Schultz in his cause.

So, Schultz became his eyes and ears in the camp, warning him whenever Hogan and his men were up to something, which they usually were, and keeping Klink informed about what else was going on.

Schultz was also his backup. He was the one Klink turned to when he was hurt or needed something. Schultz knew very little about the organization itself. He knew only who to call in case Klink was really in trouble.

Schultz had also proven adept at distinguishing between real trouble and the kind that Hogan managed to cause. When Klink was arrested last year, Schultz had wisely decided that since Hogan had gotten Klink into that mess, Hogan could get him out of it. Which he finally did.

Yes. Schultz would make the call once he realized that Hogan had nothing to do with Klink's disappearance.

Hogan. Colonel Robert Hogan.

A thorn in Kommandant Klink's side. Sometimes a pain in the Stage's as well. Intelligent, resourceful, charming when he wanted to be. A perfect man to run the type of operation he had started. He kept life interesting. Klink never knew when Hogan was planning one of his escapades. It had become a game to see if he could figure out what Hogan was up to. Most of the time, Klink was secretly amused at the lengths to which Hogan would go to pull off one of his cons.

But there were also times when Klink resented the extent to which Hogan thought of him as a fool. A sigh. Then Klink deeply regretted his charade. Then he'd almost told Hogan who he was. Under different circumstances, he would have been able to call Hogan a friend. Something that he knew had been possible since that night in the cave. Something that now would never be.

Then there were the times when Hogan had come close to having his operation terminated because he had by threatening Klink unwittingly threatened the Stage. Especially that day last December.

Klink found himself wondering how smart Hogan really was. The Stage had had some recent encounters with Hogan. Dangerous encounters. The last one especially. He'd talked too much then; what had he said while he was unconscious? Not even the Stage, despite his training, could always control his subconscious. In a way, it would make things easier if Hogan were suspicious.

A faint smile. What would Hogan's reaction be when he learned the truth? Would he even believe it?

Would he even care?

Klink chased the thought away. Even before the cave-in, Hogan knew all too well how important the Stage was. And since the cave-in . . .

_You and me. To the end._

Hogan would care. Since that day, the American colonel and the German Kommandant had come to an understanding, had developed a special rapport. A rapport, perhaps even a friendship, which might make Hogan reckless.

_Don't be a fool, Hogan_. _Once you know, leave. It will only be a matter of time before . . ._

Time. His friend. The more time that passed, the safety of his people, all those hundreds of lives, would become more assured.

And his enemy as well. Forty hours.

Klink shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the rough stone wall with his right shoulder. No position was comfortable; only some were less uncomfortable than others. The short chain on the manacle about his wrist restricted his mobility greatly.

And the manacle. It was tight. Already it had scraped the skin off his wrist. Soon the wrist would start to bleed. For now, it was just sore; then it would be painful. He doubted that they would treat it. It would not be a life threatening injury, at least not for a long while. But it would ensure that from that moment on he would never be without pain.

Pain.

Klink shivered, not just from the damp coolness of the cell. He had no idea how long he had been on that rack. Time stopped for him whenever they chained him to it. He was always in pain while he was on it. He had lived with continuous pain before, sometimes for days at a time. But not like this.

Hochstetter was toying with him. There were stretches of time when the pain was bearable. Then others when he could barely keep from crying out. Then . . .

He had screamed. And continued to scream.

Hochstetter alternated the moments he could tolerate the pain with those nightmare moments when he couldn't stop screaming. At times, the uncertainty, the waiting for those unexpected surges of current that tore the screams from his throat, was nearly as bad as the actual torture.

That was the game Hochstetter was playing, hoping that the fear of the current would become as terrible as the current itself.

The question was, which would break him first?

For now, he was able to control the fear that gripped him whenever the cell door opened. For now, he could live with the pain. And for now, Hochstetter was content to play with him.

But when would Hochstetter tire of his sport? How long would it be before the pain would stop being tolerable? How long before these respites would grow shorter? How long before his fatigue became almost as much a thing to be feared as the rack itself?

Stop!

His doubts were only helping Hochstetter, not himself. He had to take each second as it came. He couldn't live beyond the moment. He could take the pain, the fatigue, of the moment. He had to.

But, dear God, he was scared. He was so very scared.

His head drooped and, for the first time since he entered this hellhole, tears stung his eyes.

...

Wilhelm Klink felt rather than heard the cell door opening. He looked at the approaching boots with half-lidded eyes dulled from the little sleep he had gotten.

Hochstetter grinned at the man slumped against the dirty wall of the cell. Klink was a far cry from the impeccably dressed officer who had been brought in a couple of days ago. His eyes were puffy and dark with fatigue; rough growth covered his chin. The ripped uniform was stained with the damp of the cell and dirt and sweat. The jacket gaped open showing Klink's dirt-and-sweat-stained chest; bruises from the earlier beating discolored part of his upper abdomen.

Hochstetter had always assumed that Klink was soft, out of shape. But that tall, lean body was in better condition than many men half his age.

Good. He had been afraid that Klink's physical condition might kill him. But there was no danger of that. Klink could tolerate quite a bit of abuse.

Hochstetter was enjoying himself. Klink was proving to be a worthy opponent. He was still fighting. Passively, of course. Harboring his strength. Not doing anything that would provoke any more ill treatment from his guards than he had to take. Very wise. Not that it saved Klink from ill treatment. But some of the guards were "kinder" to prisoners who gave them no trouble.

A guard went over to Klink to unlock the manacle on his wrist.

Hochstetter watched Klink closely. There were no outwardly visible signs of fear yet. Yes, it would take time.

Well, Hochstetter was in no rush. Berlin was not yet pressuring him to produce his prize.

The guard pulled Klink to his feet.

Good. Though he still pulled himself erect whenever he faced Hochstetter, Klink was not as steady on his feet now.

Hochstetter caught sight of the now raw wrist. A smile. That would make Klink's time off the rack less restful; with the manacle on his wrist, it would cause him continual pain.

Hochstetter grinned at him. "Well, Klink?"

Klink stayed quiet; he had not talked since his capture.

That Hochstetter found annoying; it showed in his face.

Klink was pushed off balance from behind. He fell to his knees on the stone floor, wincing slightly.

"On your feet, Klink!" Hochstetter roared, his foot shooting out in a kick that caught Klink in the side.

Klink gasped as he toppled backwards, rolling over onto his stomach.

"I said, on your feet!"

Klink was pulled up by two guards, one wrenching his arm up savagely in a painful hammerlock, forcing him to face Hochstetter.

"Still nothing to say, Klink? . . . Very well. As you wish." Hochstetter gestured brusquely. "On the rack with him."

This time, Hochstetter caught the flicker of fear deep in Klink's eyes.

Hochstetter smiled. This time, Klink would scream more than usual.

* * *

1"War Takes a Holiday"


	7. Chapter 7

Act Two

Scene One

– Seven –

_His eyes on the face of the man standing across from him, Hogan knew total fear for the first time in his life. Their eyes met. And clung. _

_What a fool he'd been! What a blind fool!_

_Hogan continued to stare at the man he had despised for so long. And the man he had admired for so long. Then Klink was pulled away._

_Hogan couldn't see what was going on but he saw the shadows of a man held, fists swinging._

"_No!" Hogan wanted to scream. But he couldn't. _

_Finally, he saw Klink, stripped to the waist, his body covered with ugly bruises. Unconscious, Klink was dragged to the end of the cell as Hochstetter's voice floated in the semi-darkness. "We will be back, Kommandant. We will be back!" _

_Then a laugh. An insane laugh._

Hogan groaned and turned over.

_He saw Klink, blood staining his bare chest._

"_You will scream, Klink." It was Hochstetter. "And scream and scream and . . . "_

_Klink's face contorted, his mouth opened. A scream ripped the cell._

"_No," Hogan whimpered, his hands lifting to his ears. "No."_

"_Isn't this what you wanted, Hogan?" Hochstetter taunted._

"_No, I didn't mean it! I didn't!"_

_Another scream tore the silence._

Hogan moaned softly in his sleep.

_No! Don't hurt him. Please, don't . . . !_

Gasping, Hogan jerked awake in the semi-darkness. Slowly, he sat up, wrapping the blanket tightly around his body. He was shaking, and not from the cold. His throbbing head leaned against the wall, and there was a tight sob in his throat. He forced the lump down as his trembling hands lifted to his face; his fingers came away wet. A shaky breath and Hogan wiped the tears away with his sleeve. He took several deep breaths to still his trembling body.

As he calmed down, he glanced at his watch. Forty-five hours had elapsed since Klink had disappeared.

_Oh God. _Unshed tears burned his eyes. This time, he was able to will them back.

Slowly, Hogan stood and stretched carefully. Taking care not to step on anyone, he walked to the door. He opened it silently and walked out into the cold darkness.

...

Kinch was standing by the fence keeping watch. "Colonel," he greeted tonelessly.

"You can go in, Kinch," Hogan said. "I'll keep watch."

Kinch smiled at him. "No, thanks, Colonel. Wouldn't get much sleep anyway."

Hogan found it difficult to return the smile.

"Nice night," Kinch said, making small talk.

Hogan's unseeing eyes lifted to the sky.

"It's not your fault, Colonel," Kinch said quietly. "Don't blame yourself."

"I should have seen — " Hogan began angrily.

"Seen what?" Kinch said. "You saw what you were supposed to see, Colonel. What the Stage wanted you to see. You can't blame yourself for that."

"I should have seen the rest of it," Hogan said. "The way I was treating him. The way I used him. Like a piece of dirt to be picked up and thrown away. I had no right to do that to him."

"You saw the uniform," Kinch said.

A derisive snort. "I should have seen more; I should have seen the man. We Americans, we like to think we're better than others. But when it comes down to it, are we? Really?"

"I hope so," Kinch said quietly. "At least I like to think we could be. Colonel, over the past few weeks, you did change the way you treated him. He stopped being a uniform to you. I think even before you were willing to admit it. We all saw it. He did too. Be glad of that. The past few weeks have been hard on everyone with the extra prisoners and the money problems. But the way you two got along with each other made things a whole lot easier for everyone."

"Maybe," Hogan murmured. He felt a need to talk. "What I can't forget is how he must have felt when the Gestapo turned up and accused him of being a resistance leader. I thought it was a great joke.

"Some joke." His voice was bitter now. "Can you imagine how he must have felt when he heard that? His worst nightmare and I made it happen. And then he was forced to spend the night in that cell, waiting for them to show up and start on him.

"My God! Why didn't I think? Why? Even if he weren't the Stage . . . " His voice grew fainter. "What if they had tortured him that night, Kinch? What if — ?"

"Don't, Colonel!" Kinch interrupted. "It didn't happen! It's over! Colonel, the way he's been toward you since that cave-in, I know he's forgiven you for it."

There were uncharacteristic tears in his voice. "But I can't forgive myself, Kinch. And I can't forget either. Not now, not ever. And if we don't find him, if he dies or breaks, then what?"

"We go on," Kinch said quietly. "We go on and continue his fight. It's what he'd want, Colonel. It's what he'd expect, especially from you. If you give up or wallow in self-pity, everything he's done for you will have been wasted. Because he's never given up, no matter what happened."

Hogan stayed silent for a while. When he spoke again, he was more like himself. "You're a smart man, Sergeant Kinchloe."

Kinch grinned. "I've learned from the best, Colonel."

Hogan's eyes were on the rising sun. Another day.

Where was he? Where? Hogan didn't realize he spoke aloud. Where?

...

Unconscious, Wilhelm Klink was pulled off the rack and returned to his spot beside the wall. He was laid on the straw, the manacle once more placed around his bleeding wrist.

Hochstetter grinned. It was going well. During the past ten hours, Klink had had little respite from the rack. Nor did he have much on the rack itself. Klink had shown an amazing tolerance to pain that Hochstetter had not expected until he'd thought about it. The Stage had been wounded in the past; yet visits to Stalag 13 shortly afterwards showed nothing unusual in Klink's behavior. He had behaved normally despite the fact that he must have been in pain. Klink's tolerance was well above that of most men. But he was not superhuman. Even he had his limits.

In the beginning, Hochstetter had experimented with the current, finding a level that had wrenched screams out of Klink but didn't push him into unconsciousness. But soon, Klink's unusually high tolerance would work against him. Hochstetter would not allow him the luxury of relief from the pain for long periods now. The moments Klink spent chained to the wall would grow shorter. Now most of Klink's days and nights would be spent on the rack. When Hochstetter was around, Klink would scream. When Hochstetter wasn't watching, the level of pain would be just low enough so Klink did not cry out. At least not continually. But the pain would wear Klink down, forcing occasional cries from him. Perhaps even forcing tears from him.

Or answers.

Tomorrow it will be seventy-two hours since Klink arrived. Hochstetter was confident that in another day or two he would have the information he wanted from Klink. More importantly, he would have the Stage, or rather Klink, a man he had hated for so long, begging for mercy. A mercy Klink would not receive. Once Hochstetter had wrung all the information he needed out of Klink, he would then be free to kill Klink. Slowly. Very, very slowly. No longer would Hochstetter hold back. Klink would die a bleeding, broken wreck of a man, crying piteously. How long, Hochstetter wondered, how long would it take Klink to die?

Wilhelm Klink, recovering consciousness, heard the door to the cell close. But he continued to lie where he was laid. He couldn't move. The last session had sapped his strength far more than he cared to admit. He stayed prone, trying to regain some of it.

How much more of Hochstetter's torture could he take?

He had no idea. There was only one thing keeping him going now. His people should be safe; over fifty hours had passed since he was taken. If he broke now, the information he revealed would be of minimal use to anyone. But he knew Hochstetter of old. Once he talked, once he had been paraded around as a propaganda victory, then Hochstetter would begin on him again. There would be no quick death for him in front of a firing squad or a hanging. No sentence to a concentration camp. That would be too easy. His death would be as long and bloody as Hochstetter could make it.

By resisting now, Klink was putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. By resisting now, he was hoping that Hochstetter might make a mistake, a mistake that might end his life more quickly.

Was there anything he could do?

Klink forced his heavy eyelids open and focused his bleary vision on the manacle around his wrist. Blood was seeping from beneath the chain, down his wrist and staining his uniform jacket.

Was it possible to somehow increase the blood flow, perhaps cut the artery?

Klink moved his wrist slowly and gasped as pain shot through his arm. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. This time, he nearly cried out.

He stopped. The manacle was tight and painful, but it was bulky, not sharp. He forced his body to relax and closed his eyes.

Besides, he admitted to himself, he doubted his ability to commit suicide. That meant the end of all hope. And whether it was ridiculous or not, he was not yet to the point of despair. His reputation had been built by achieving the impossible, more than once.

But this time, even the impossible seemed far away. Very far away . . .


	8. Chapter 8

Act Two

Scene One

– Eight –

Mid afternoon. Klink had been gone well over fifty hours.

Hogan paced restlessly outside the cabin, back and forth in a straight line. He was counting his steps, counting so he didn't have to think.

But it wasn't working; he couldn't stop thinking. It seemed as if every moment he had spent with Klink in the past, every word he had said to him, insisted on dredging itself up. More than ever, his unfeeling, contemptuous behavior toward Klink was becoming clearer. No wonder Klink had never said a word to him. He wouldn't have said anything either if he'd been treated like that.

A sigh and Hogan stopped walking, leaning against the dilapidated fence.

Where was Klink? Where?!

Restless, he began walking again.

What was Klink doing? How was he feeling? Had he given up hope? Did he know there were people out there who cared about him? Who wanted to find him?

Schultz had told them that the Stage had said that if he were captured, his people were to leave Germany immediately. He was the only one who knew the entire operation. He alone knew who the Six were and how to contact them. His capture threatened everyone, not just parts of his vast organization.

The Stage's orders did not allow for a rescue, Schultz had said. They never had. The Stage was to be written off. He would give his people as much time as he could, but in the end, unless his captors did something to prematurely kill him, he knew he would break. Schultz had shuddered when Klink had so calmly, almost nonchalantly, talked about his capture. There was no fake bravado in his voice, no ridiculous vows of holding out, of not breaking. Klink had seen all too often what happened to those the Gestapo wanted to break. Every man had his limits; he knew his better than most men. It would only be a matter of time. And he accepted that and went on, continually risking that horrible fate.

Kinch walked over to Hogan. "Time to call again, Colonel."

Hogan nodded and followed Kinch inside. And waited until Kinch placed the call.

The voice on the other end was excited; for the first time, hope surged through Hogan.

"I've scraped together a list of places Hochstetter was spotted at," Teppel said. "But I have to warn you, they're all long shots. Unfortunately, only one is in your area. The others are a long way away."

"I want them all," Hogan said tonelessly.

"I thought you would. Here goes . . . "

Hogan scribbled down seven locations, scattered all over Germany. The major was right; they were all long shots. And most were in impossible locations.

Hogan hung up the phone quietly, staring at the list. Then he looked up at his men.

"I'm not going to raise your hopes," he said. "There's only one place we can possibly get to tonight. The others . . . " He shrugged.

The others, Hogan vowed, he would find himself, after his men and Schultz were safely gone. Regardless of the Stage's orders, he had to know what happened to Klink.

Hogan's face was impassive, his voice low. "Okay, here's what we do . . . "

His men and Schultz listened attentively, hope flickering inside them. Maybe, just maybe, this was it.

...

The night was dark, moonless, overcast, as Hogan looked over the bleak stone building. It was well hidden, with nothing to identify it as the chamber of horrors he knew it to be. Hochstetter had done an excellent job keeping this place a secret from all the normal sources. Officially, no one knew where it was.

Hogan was praying that the secrecy was a point in their favor. It was so well hidden that it didn't even have a guard in the front.

The question was, was Klink in there? And if he was . . .

Klink had been gone sixty hours; Hogan didn't want to think about what he'd find. If Klink wasn't here, at least they could shut this place down, put some of those monsters out of business. But if Klink wasn't there . . .

_You and me. To the end._

If Klink wasn't here, they had no clues as to where he could be, and it would take at least another day to reach any of the other locations. If Klink weren't here, assuming they survived, his men would have to leave Germany. There was no choice; Hogan had to think about them.

And Klink . . . ?

Hogan shivered. He had no intention of leaving Germany without knowing what had happened to Klink. But if Klink wasn't in here, what would he find when he did finally locate Klink?

Another shiver. Klink had to be in here, he just had to be.

...

Wilhelm Klink stifled the strangled cry in his throat. Somehow, he managed to force down the sob as well.

He had lost track of the time he had been on the rack. All he knew was that it had to be night. There was no one here to watch his lonely fight. A guard came in every so often to see if he had broken yet. But that was all. He was deserted, entirely alone.

_Stop it!_

Klink had to catch himself mentally all too often now. He could feel the weight of despair preying on his mind. The unceasing pain and fatigue were finally taking their toll on him. How long could he hold out against himself?

Klink shivered in the coolness. His jacket had been removed. A new phase of the torture? Discard the clothing, begin to strip him of his humanity? A prelude to some other, more horrifying torture?

He didn't know. And he didn't want to think about it. He couldn't. All he could think about was the here and now.

Another shiver from the cool air on his sweat-drenched body. 

He moved awkwardly, trying to ease the pressure on his shoulder joints. This time, a cry was forced from him as the current merged with the pain from his abraded wrist. He was breathing in harsh gasps, trying to settle into a normal rhythm when the current ripped through him again.

_Dear God, the pain . . ._

It was unending now, with no respite.

_Stop! Don't think. You can take . . ._

His body convulsed again.

This time the sob came out and a tear trickled down his cheek. He could taste the salty tear on his lip, reminding him of his thirst. The tear surprised him and gave him strength at the same time.

_Not yet, Hochstetter. Not yet. Every second I hold out weakens me further. Every second is a second closer to death, but not the way you're planning it._

_But, dear God, I hurt . . ._

His body arched once more.

...

They were in the dark hallway now — Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter. Schultz and Kinchloe were checking the outside grounds.

They had spotted a couple of guards, guards they had taken deadly care of, quickly and quietly. Security was unexpectedly lax, Hochstetter expecting no trouble in this supposedly secret location.

Newkirk opened the first door and, bracing himself, looked inside. His face contorted as he saw the putrid, broken body with the unseeing eyes on the floor. He shook his head quickly and shut the door.

Hogan moved to the next door and opened it. The smell hit him first, the smell of human waste and vomit. And he stared, horrified, at the man he'd once thought he despised, the man he'd finally admitted meant so much to him.

Wilhelm Klink was chained to a rack-like contraption by the far right wall, his appearance worse than any nightmare Hogan had ever had. He had been stripped to the waist. His wrists were in manacles far above his head, the stretch visibly straining his arm and shoulder muscles. Blood was seeping from beneath the manacle on his right wrist down the length of his arm to his shoulder and further down, staining the short dark hairs on his dirty chest. His soiled body was shiny from the sweat that soaked him. Bruises discolored his upper abdomen and parts of his chest. Odd welts were also visible. His legs were anchored in another set of chains at the bottom of the rack. The rest of his clothing was stained with dirt, straw, water and even blood, vomit and urine. Klink's head had fallen down to his chest. His face, with its rough growth, was etched with pain and fatigue, streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes were closed; Hogan could hear his harsh breathing. Hogan prayed Klink was unconscious.

But he wasn't. Klink stirred, then convulsed, his head lifting, a hoarse cry escaping his cracked lips.

Hogan, slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, moved toward the rack. He had to get Klink off that thing.

Carter and Newkirk followed. LeBeau stayed by the door.

Hogan reached the rack as Klink's eyes flickered open. The bloodshot eyes tried to focus on Hogan's face. Surprise flitted through the pain in those eyes.

A barely audible whisper from the man on the rack. "What . . . what are you doing here?"

"Symbiosis, remember," Hogan said in a voice made harsh by horror. "I'll bet you thought I didn't know what it meant."

Amazingly, Hogan caught a flash of humor beneath the pain in the blue eyes. "Besides, I made you a promise," Hogan added in a gentler voice as the pained eyes stayed on his face. "You and me. To the end. Remember?"

"Ow!" from Carter as he touched the manacles on Klink's wrists. "Colonel," he complained, "these shackles are charged. I don't know how to get them off."

"Let me see," Newkirk said, after releasing the bonds around Klink's feet.

Klink forced himself to speak. "They're controlled from the console," he said through cracked lips. Then his face twisted as the current slashed through him once more.

Newkirk hurried to the console. Unfamiliar switches and dials looked up at him. Part of it evidently controlled the current passing to the rack. Off to the side was a lone switch. Praying it was the right one, Newkirk flipped the switch.

Klink gasped as his freed hands slipped unexpectedly from the shackles. He sucked his breath in sharply. His fingers had gone numb and life was returning to them with agonizing prickles.

With Carter's help, Hogan pulled Klink from the rack. Klink was unable to stand and he slumped between them to his knees.

Hogan knelt beside Klink, holding the tortured man in his arms, oblivious to the filth, the smell of Klink's unwashed body, the bloody wrist staining his trousers.

"Water . . . please," Klink whispered, his head against Hogan, his dirty fingers clutching Hogan's sweater.

Newkirk, leaving the console, spotted the water tin on the floor and took it over to them.

Hogan took the tin from Newkirk and raised it to Klink's lips. A gulp. But Klink choked on the swallow, water spewing down his chest, splashing on Hogan as well. Hogan held him as the spasm passed and tried again. This time, Klink was able to swallow some of the tepid liquid.

"Colonel," Hogan said urgently, putting the tin on the floor, "we've got to get out of here. Can you stand?"

"I'll . . . try," a ghost of a voice.

A sudden cry from the door. LeBeau, a gash on the back of his head, was pushed into the room. Newkirk caught him as he fell.

"Well, well, well." Hochstetter, with two machinegun-armed guards on either side of him, grinned at them. "How nice of you to join us, Colonel Hogan. Very nice, indeed."

Hogan and his men exchanged grim glances.

And Hogan, to his shock and dismay, felt the man he was holding tremble.


	9. Chapter 9

Act Two

Scene One

– Nine –

Hogan and his men were herded over to the side of the cell, covered by machineguns. Klink was left kneeling in the middle of the floor as Hochstetter grinned at them.

"Well, Klink," Hochstetter was saying, "we now have fresh meat for our entertainment. You have managed to tolerate the rack very well; let us see how they handle it." He turned to the waiting men.

Hogan and his men braced themselves at the look in Hochstetter's eyes.

"No."

Hochstetter and the others looked at Klink in surprise.

Klink's voice, though barely audible, was unexpectedly clear. Still kneeling, his hands on his knees, Klink looked up at Hochstetter.

Hochstetter stepped backwards in surprise at the look in Klink's eyes.

"I said no," Klink repeated softly.

"No?" Hochstetter echoed. "You're giving me orders, Klink?"

He laughed and then stopped as Klink continued. "Put any of them on that thing," Klink was saying in a faint voice, his eyes meeting Hochstetter's. "And you will never get any information from me, Hochstetter. Your great propaganda coup will never happen. That I promise you."

Hochstetter laughed again. "You, Klink? You, a filthy, stinking thing, you promise me?"

"No, Major." There was a ghost of a smile on the torn lips. "The Stage promises. And the Stage," Klink finished softly, "always keeps his promises."

Realizing he was out maneuvered, Hochstetter roared his hate and anger. His hand lashed out, catching Klink in the face with a backhanded blow.

Hogan winced as Klink, blood on his lip, fell into the wall behind him and then slid down it to his knees.

Hochstetter kicked out savagely, catching Klink in the small of his back.

With a nauseated groan, Klink fell forward onto his face.

Hogan moved convulsively as Hochstetter lashed out again, catching Klink in the side with his boot. The soldier nearest Hogan butted the machinegun he held into Hogan's middle. With a groan of his own, Hogan doubled up. Only Carter kept him on his feet.

Hochstetter, ignoring Hogan, knelt beside Klink and pulled him off the floor, leaning Klink against the wall.

"You haven't begun to suffer yet, Klink," Hochstetter vowed as Hogan and his men listened in dismay. "This time your screams will stop only when I tire of them. And I promise you, it will be a long time before I tire of them! A very long time!" Hochstetter smiled as he saw the look in Klink's eyes. "Good. You are afraid of me now. I promise you, Klink, there is a great deal more for you to be afraid of. A very great deal more!"

Hochstetter rose, pulling Klink up with him. Then he propelled Klink into the rack; Klink sagged to his knees, grasping the rack to keep from falling to the ground. Hochstetter pushed him onto the rack, a soldier helping to secure Klink on it.

Hogan watched in despair as Hochstetter went over to the console. His men looked at Hogan desperately, wanting him to signal a move.

Hogan tensed, ready to jump the armed guard, despite the risks to himself and his men.

"Hogan!"

Hogan froze at the sound of Klink's voice.

"You do nothing, see nothing, feel nothing!" Klink ordered in an agonized voice. "That is an — "

A terrifying scream cut off the last word. It was followed by another. And another as Hogan and his men watched in growing horror.

...

An eternity passed.

Hogan's men closed their eyes, unable to watch the torture any longer. But Klink's screams continued to sound in their ears.

Hogan watched the living nightmare with seeming impassivity; only his slowly clenching and unclenching fists betrayed him. Hochstetter hadn't lied; Klink hadn't stopped screaming since he was put on that thing. Worse, tears were finally being forced from him and a fresh stain wet his already soiled pants.

They would pay for every second of Klink's agony, his degradation, Hogan vowed. Somehow, they would all pay.

The scream was interrupted by a shot, then two others.

Hochstetter, incredulous astonishment on his face, turned around to face Sergeant Hans Schultz and the gun he held.

"You!" Hochstetter breathed in disbelief.

The gun in Schultz's hand fired again. Blood spurting from his chest, Hochstetter fell to the ground, dead.

Hogan moved quickly to the console, finding the switch to release Klink's bonds as another scream ripped through the cell. Newkirk and Carter were already at the rack, catching Klink's body as he slid down, freed from the shackles.

Kinchloe checked the two guards he had shot and joined Hogan at the console. "They were the last, Colonel," Kinch said. "The place is deserted."

"Good."

Hogan joined the others at the rack as they undid the chains around Klink's ankles. Klink was mercifully unconscious.

"We need to get out of here in a hurry," Hogan said. "Before someone else shows up."

"Sir, the Colonel's out of it," Newkirk said in a shaking voice.

"I will carry him," Schultz said firmly, already at Klink's side.

"Okay. Carter, torch this cell as soon as we leave. Newkirk, get Klink's jacket and hat. The rest of you, place the bombs as we go. I want this place destroyed," Hogan ordered grimly.

"With pleasure, mon Colonel," LeBeau said fervently.

They watched as Schultz almost tenderly picked up Klink. Hogan and Kinch followed Schultz as he walked out of the cell with his burden.

"Kinch," Hogan asked, "anything in the office?"

"Nothing," Kinch answered. "Klink wasn't identified by name. Only as an anonymous VIP. No record of any calls in or out. Which doesn't mean there weren't any."

"No, it doesn't," Hogan agreed. "Find Klink's belongings?"

"Yeah, in the office," Kinch said. "We can pick them up on the way out."

"Then, as far as we know, no one knew Colonel Wilhelm Klink was ever here."

"Yeah, guess so, Colonel," Kinch said. "Why?"

"Because he's got a decision to make," Hogan said evasively.

They reached the outside of building, Schultz carrying the still unconscious body of his Kommandant.

Hogan had picked up Klink's effects and put them into the trunk of the car. Schultz placed Klink inside the car, draping his coat over the still Kommandant.

Behind them, the building was already burning from the incendiaries Carter had placed. In a few minutes, the flames would reach the explosives as well. In a few minutes, the place would be reduced to burning rubble.

The others piled inside the car.

Hogan stared at the building for a moment before getting into the car. Who had died in there? They would never know. But no else would die there again.

"Let's get out of here," Hogan ordered quietly.

The dark car slipped off into the silent night.


End file.
